Whatever It Takes Pt. 01: Trust

This is the first of a three part series. Fair warning: this story covers a range of kinks and fetishes. And so if that isn't your thing, beware - and don't say you weren't warned. Enjoy.

'You said you wanted to fix this, fix us.'

There had been tears, tears leading up to this moment. But this was something different. Now Sarah looked resolute. Now Sarah looked unshakeable. Now Sarah appeared righteous in her determination.

'I do, I do want to fix this,' I said, and god did I mean it. Cos, in the end, whatever else, I'd done this, this was my fault, I'd done this to us, and not just once, but over and over.

'I want to trust you again, Tom. But that'll take time. And until then, I need this.' She pushed the box towards me, the contents clinked, metal against metal.

'But...' I said.

'If we're to have a chance, Tom, if this is going to work, it's got to be like this. This is the only way.'

And this is what we'd agreed. Well, not this, not this exactly, but that I'd do what was needed, that I'd do whatever it takes.

Because in the end, it was all my doing. I'd fucked up. I fucked up, and she'd caught me red-handed. It was all me.

It started with Kayla. Kayla the intern.

She'd been dispatched to my team for the first quarter, because quarter one was where the interesting stuff happened, because quarter one was a mean motherfucker, and because head office, and the good lord himself, knew that we'd need the help.

And so they sent Kayla. Kayla of the blush red lips. Kayla of the too short, too tight skirt. Kayla of the gravity defying breasts. Kayla of the pale fleshy thighs. Kayla of the perfect ass. Kayla who was forever there, Kayla who was forever needy, Kayla who just could not do enough.

It'd started with late nights at the office, Kayla by the copier, and me, fucking idiot that I am, with far too much time to kill. Then the coffee machine with my stupid fucking jokes, stupid fucking stories, and stupid blind belief that this could actually lead somewhere and somewhere better.

Then my office. Whether it was her or me, we moved to my office.

Tom, she said - at some point she'd begun to call me by my forename.

Tom, and she's sucking at her finger, looking bashful, now into my space, her free hand against my hip, and the scent of her, god, the scent of her, so unlike Sarah, so unfamiliar, so fresh, so new.

I'd lowered the blinds earlier that afternoon to take a call and then to focus on the quarter end report. Later, the two of us in the dim. The floor empty, everyone had left hours ago. Just Kayla and I. Kayla sucking at her finger. Kayla pressed against my hip. Then Kayla on her knees, unbuckling and lowering my trousers and shorts.

She held my cock in the warmth of her hands, her fist hiding all but the crown, swollen, weeping precum. And if she was disappointed she did not show it. She did show me tongue, from the round of my balls to the tip of my shaft. And then she took me to the base, throat deep, with a single motion. Her hands against my ass, pulling me deeper, spluttering, coughing, gagging, drooling, as if my modest 4 and a half inches was too much, too much for her to take.

And then my hands in her hair, rocking against her lips, balls slapping against her chin, and then thrusting, fucking her mouth as if it were a cunt. And Kayla moaning, Kayla begging for it, Kayla taking all I might give and yet wanting even more.

And then, when I was done, done with a groan from the deep of my chest, she opened her mouth, overbrimming with thick pearlescent cum, held it for an instant, closed, swallowed, and then, with a perfectly framed grin, said, 'Yum'.

Sarah rarely went down. Sarah never swallowed. Sarah never rimmed. Sarah would not contemplate taking my cock in her ass. But Kayla did it all and more.

The first time I fucked her, I held her against my desk, my mouth against her mouth, her tongue probing my ear, her shirt ripped open in our desperation, the heavy swell of her breasts pressed tight against my chest.

'Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me, Daddy.'

And I, pounding her hard enough to rock the desk. Pounding her hard enough to make her squeal with each and every thrust. Pounding her hard enough that I worried domestics, security, Charlie from Accounts, might overhear and intervene to stop this thing. And part of me wished that it might be so, as I unloaded deep into her cunt. I worried that they might know and I worried that they might not.

And I wondered about Sarah as I returned late again, Sarah in the kitchen, Sarah leaning across the stove, Sarah with a glass of red Merlot to hand, not seeing that I'd arrived, hair mussed, dishevelled and stinking of fuck.

Fucking Kayla against the office window, I watched the city roil and unravel below. My cock between her cheeks shallow dicking her pussy while I frigged at her clit reaching from around her hip. Kayla gasping, gasping, gasping as if for air. And I grunting, grunting, grunting, coming up fast behind. Then Kayla winning that race at the last, tipping over the edge, a half second before I too reached the line.

'Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, fuck.'

Arriving half a second late and cumming hard, light atmospheric entry, the heat shield slipped, burning up on re-entry. Grunting, pushing her face hard against cold glass as she licked at the window pane, the sodden wetness of her cum and my cum frothing between us and dripping against her legs and down onto the carpet.

The first time I fucked her, I took her raw. I didn't ask, it was assumed. Skin to skin, the slosh of her pussy, the splash of the release, the first stroke spraying her labia, the second pushing it deep.

The next time it was expected, but she asked,

'Breed me, Daddy. Cum inside me, Daddy. Knock me up, Daddy.'

Kayla fucked messy, Kayla fucked nasty, Kayla fucked loud. And it was all risky, and so we moved it to the Marriott and I fucked her bareback each and every time. Sometimes, after, she'd stretch against the white sheets toying with her pussy, pushing her fingers deep, stretching spunk drool between her fingers before lapping at it with the pink of her tongue. Something that Sarah would never do. Something that I would never even think to ask.

We fucked weekly, then twice weekly, and then escalated to every other Saturday. If Sarah noticed, she didn't say a word. Then I added the Friday through into the Saturday, not caring that the lies were stretching paper thin. Sometimes I'd lay beside Kayla, or lay beside Sarah, wondering what each might be thinking and whether either considered the other. And, in that moment, I wondered if perhaps part of me might want to be caught. But then the moment would pass and turn and I'd be fucking Kayla missionary, then fucking Kayla doggy, then fucking Kayla's face while she gagged and spluttered, and then fucking Kayla's tight ass while she wailed like a banshee.

Kayla, just 21, the world fat and ripe and ready for her. And I, 36, married, mortgage, BMW, and the title, 'Director,' earned across a fifteen year career. All of it culminating in a single moment fractured, Sarah, my phone in her hand and then against the hard slate floor. Sarah, green eyes now red and overflowing. Sarah, undone, and sobbing, 'What the fuck, Tom. What the fuck, Tom. What the fuck.'

It didn't even occur to me to lie. It didn't occur to me to argue. It didn't occur to me to explain.

Instead, I returned to the Marriott for a couple of nights. I tried calling Kayla that second night, fucking loser that I am. But she wouldn't take the call, she wouldn't return the texts, she wouldn't acknowledge the voicemail, even when I begged. Whether Sarah had gotten to her, or whether she'd heard by some other means, she did not return to the office the following day or the next. A week later, she transferred into the city.

On the third night, I moved out to the Travelodge. I waited a week and then another. Ian from HR, a fucking tosser in a cream suit, interviewed me alongside some lawyer, an attempt to bluff me into spilling it all. But it was clear that whatever they guessed, Kayla had said nothing. I met with them a second time, they hit bottom, and then they were done.

I tried Sarah through that first week, only she refused to take my calls. The second week I tried again and then she did.

'I could blow it all up,' she said, 'End everything, but still walk away with it all.' This was a different Sarah, a harder Sarah, a better Sarah.

I told her that I wanted to fix things, that I would do what it takes. But this new Sarah wanted to see me beg.

Later, in our kitchen, the lighting cold, stark, cruel.

'I want to see you beg,' she said.

'I'm begging you, Sarah.'

'Why are you still sitting down then?'

I understood, I wanted to fix things, and this was how. I slumped to my knees.

'Lower,' she said, slipping her foot out from her sandal and holding it to my face, pressing it into my cheek, then my mouth.

I understood, I wanted to fix things, and so I kissed the arch of her foot, sucked at her toe, tongued her sole, the taste all tang and salt. And Sarah regarding me, along the length of her leg - a suggestion of black panties beneath the hem of her skirt - all with a look which signalled something new, something different, something that I did not recognise.

And me, grovelling against the floor, the taste of her still against my tongue; I, harder than ever before, my near-five-inches-but-not-quite tenting my trousers. Hard, harder than any other time with Sarah. Harder than any time with Kayla.

'Whatever it takes,' I said, all leading to this moment. To Sarah, the promise, and the box. 'Whatever it takes.'

'I need three things: trust, truth, and change. But it begins with trust.' She pushed the box and tipped the contents onto the table before me. A steel ring, a steel mesh cage, a key.

'What is?' I asked.

'You'll see.'

Sarah scooped it up and led me into the bathroom.

'Strip,' she said.

'What?'

'Whatever it takes,' she reminded, and so I disrobed, my cock hard and angry red-blue. She looked down, then to my face, with something like pity and something like disgust. She turned, rummaged through the medicine cabinet and removed her razor and foam.

I started to protest.

'You said, "Whatever it takes." If you didn't mean that, you can stop wasting my time and you can leave right now. Otherwise, shut the fuck up, Tom.' Her face was hard, unyielding, imperious. Sarah had never looked more beautiful than in that moment.

She gripped my balls, her palm cold, tightening her grip and forcing me up onto my toes. My cock twitched, she sneered, relaxed just a little, and then lathered me up with the foam.

'You might want to hold still for this.'

She took the razor, ran it under the hot water, and, beginning with my balls, working in long methodical sweeps, she shaved me smooth. She rinsed and patted me dry with a hand towel. I was rock hard, vivid blue veins running the length of my shaft. My 4 and a half inches rigid and throbbing. But naked and shaved bare, I looked smaller, child-like, pathetic. She gripped my shaft, stroked once, twice as I leaned into it, so close to release, then, with a half-twist, she let me go.

'Don't get too excited,' she said, 'it'll be a long time before I'll be touching that again.'

She said, 'a long time,' which was objectively less time than never. That gave me something to hope for, something to work toward, something to hold on to.

She ran the cold water tap, rinsed the towel, and then pressed it, wet, icy, against my cock.

'Fuck,' I said, with the shock of it. Sarah stopped me with a look. I shrivelled, I shrank.

She held my balls, briefly, and then pushed them roughly through the steel ring. I winced, but kept quiet. She then threaded my flaccid dick through before turning the ring so that the hinge was positioned to the top. She took the steel meshed cage, lined it up, and slid it over my cock. She lined it up carefully, turned the key and stepped back.

'What is this?' I asked.

'Trust,' she said. 'You wear this until I can trust you.' She threaded the key through her silver chain. 'No fucking, no wanking, not without my say so, not without this.' She wrapped the chain around her neck, the key hanging pendulously between her breasts where she teased it with the length of her finger. My cock began to swell, the sense of it tight, constricted, maddening. She looked down to the cage, scooped a dribble of precum and, before I could think to protest, she pressed her finger between my lips, salty, bitter, but turning too soon to sweet.

'Suck,' she said, and I did. 'You'll get used to it,' she said, and moved back towards the bedroom.

'How long?' I asked. She turned, looked at me with something akin to disgust, sneered, and then left me naked and shivering against the cold.

That night she allowed me to return to her bed. I slid open my bedside draw looking for my pyjamas.

'No,' she said, 'For now, you sleep naked.' I swung in beside her. 'Just so I can be sure that you're not playing with that tiny dicklet.'

I blinked. This was quite unlike Sarah. I blinked harder and my cock twitched within the confines of the cage, rearing up before shrinking back.

She stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and I listened to her flush the toilet, run the tap, clatter the medicine cabinet. She emerged wearing a black slip, the cut running the edge of her thigh teasing all that lay beneath. Her breasts bulged against the silk straps threatening to overspill but not quite.

She climbed into bed beside me leaving space between her hip and mine. She turned on her side and towards me.

'Show me,' she said.

I pulled away the covers and she took the steel cage, turning it between her slender fingers. She was still wearing her wedding ring. I noticed that. I also noticed the way in which my cock looked ridiculous and tiny against her hand.

'Why I wasted so many years on this pathetic dicklet is quite beyond me,' she said.

She rolled away from me for a moment and rummage in her bedside cabinet. She turned back holding it out towards me, thick, heavy, intimating: a fake cock, pale rubber flesh, impossibly huge, 8 inches, maybe 9. She held it out towards me, gripping the base with her right hand. She reached out with her left hand and stroked down from the crown to the base, pausing to cup at the balls. She repeated the action once and then twice.

'Too dry,' she said, holding the cock out towards me.

I blinked, like a fucking idiot.

'I said it is too dry,' she held the cock out, the shaft pointing towards my face.

'Seriously?' I asked.

'Whatever it takes,' she reminded me.

I understood, I wanted to fix things, and so I allowed her to touch the rubber phallus to my lips. She slapped it once, twice, three times against my mouth, the weight of it heavy and substantial and quite unlike the dicklet that strained against the cage.

Cock, I corrected myself, cock, not dicklet. And I wondered what the fuck was happening to me and to us.

'Open up,' she said as she pressed against my lips. She eased the fake cock with smooth but shallow strokes, the thickness of the thing beginning to fill my mouth. I tasted with my tongue, the blandness of spongy rubber, but, beneath it, something sour, something sweet, something familiar. My eyes widened and she caught it and sniggered.

'What do you think I was doing while you were out every night fucking that slut with your pathetic dicklet?' she said, her smile cruel, but with a softness beneath it.

She continued to work the cock with her right hand, circling the shaft with her left, deeper, picking up pace, bulging my cheeks. She paused and held the cock deep in my mouth, her fingers pressed against my lips at the point they circled the shaft.

'Four and a half inches,' she said. 'Now you know what it's like to tend to that little dicklet. Except, of course, this new and improved version is a lot thicker.'

Despite myself, I groaned, my cock swelling painfully. I adjusted the cage and groaned again, my cock leaking precum against the bed, my thigh, and now my stomach.

She slid the dildo free from my mouth, scooped up precum with her fingers and smeared it across the head of the fake cock.

'Open,' she said, and slid the phallus back between my lips, now probing, now thrusting deeper.

'Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug.'

I made it more than half way, 5 inches maybe, and then gagged. She eased off, removed the cock, smeared more precum against the crown, my dicklet soft but oozing profusely.

'Again, but this time open up your throat,' she swept the shaft beyond my lips with one smooth motion, filling my mouth with rubber and the salty bitter taste of myself. I moaned, my head beginning to turn and then spin with the madness and need of it all. Sarah began working deeper, leaning into the fuck. I relaxed, resisting the need to gag, to vomit. And I took it, 6 inches, maybe a more, and I could now feel her pressing against my throat, promising to open me up completely.

'Good boy,' she said, sliding the cock free and holding it up before me, only now slicked with drool. 'You took that like a true sissy,' she said, but now with a smile.

'My turn,' she said. She slumped back, widened her legs and tapped the spit-lubed cock against her pussy, her clit.

'Mmm,' she said.

She held the base with her right hand and, again, circled the shaft with her left. She sank the cock into her pussy with one smooth motioned sigh, pausing as her finger pressed against her labia.

'Four and a half pathetic inches,' she said. 'That's as deep as your dicklet ever reached.'

My cock throbbed within the cage, redding flesh swelling and bulging beyond the steel. I adjusted myself, squeezed at the cage, needing release, needing to cum. She saw my discomfort and she grinned.

She slid the cock from her body leaving the head resting against her folds. She adjusted her knees and then eased the cock balls deep with one fluid push.

'Fuuuuuuuck,' she said, raising her hips up. 'This,' she said, 'is so much deeper and so much better than anything you could give me.'

Her ass sank back into the bed and she removed the cock, again, resting, before thrusting deep. And then again, only harder. And then again, only now she was pushing back with her thighs, her hips, her cunt slopping and slapping against rubberised balls with every down stroke.

And then again, a gasp, her legs, her thighs, her neck, beginning to tighten and tense. And then again, deep, a double thrust trying to press deeper still. And then again, only now she was shuddering, her eyes rolling back, grunting with the effort, grunting with the force of it.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' The whites of her eyes and through the snap of teeth. Now her hand, the cock, was a blur, the sound of fucking, the smell of fucking filling the room and I'd never been more turned on, the pain of my need filled everything and all.

'Fuuuuuuucccck,' with a tremulous sigh she slumped back to the bed and turned her head towards me. 'For ten years I've tolerated that pathetic dicklet, and never once have you made me cum like that.'

She held the fake cock out to me again. 'Clean,' she said, and I took it, the taste, the swell, the hardness, the need, I took it all without ever once being reminded that I'd promised, that I'd agreed to this.

'Whatever it takes.' That's what I'd said and now I'd begun to understand what it might mean.